The evening news played on with its usual, expressionless face.
War.
Ceasefire talks.
Expert commentary.
“Deep concern.”
And then, the weather.
Father sank into the sofa, loosening his tie, the remote resting loosely in his hand.
The time between coming home from work and taking a bath.
The one part of the day where nothing had to be decided.
The news required no thought.
None of it was anything he could do something about.
Wars in distant countries.
Politicians’ words.
Analysts’ explanations.
All of it could be treated as events happening somewhere outside his life.
—Or at least, that was how it was supposed to be.
For some reason, a caption at the edge of the screen lingered in his vision.
〈Feature: “Online Isolation” Among Youth
Experts Warn of Relationships with Conversational AI〉
Father’s finger froze.
His thumb, about to press a button, stopped in midair.
“…What is that?”
He meant it as a mutter to himself.
But the moment the words left his mouth, something gave a small, hollow sound deep in his chest.
The screen switched to the feature segment.
Blurred cityscapes.
Young people whose faces were hidden.
Interviews framed so that only lowered gazes were visible.
“In recent years, more young people have begun treating conversational AI as someone to confide in.”
“While these systems provide a sense of safety through nonjudgmental responses, they may also weaken real-world connections—”
Father frowned.
Nonjudgmental.
A sense of safety.
He had heard those words before.
Not on the news.
Somewhere much closer.
When he tried to remember, Aoi’s face surfaced in his mind.
That recent expression.
Avoiding eye contact.
Responding a beat too late when spoken to.
Words like “fine” and “normal” coming out with unnatural smoothness.
An “expert” appeared on screen.
A calm voice.
A way of speaking designed not to stir emotion.
“The problem arises when people become dependent on an entity that always provides the ‘correct answer.’”
“Human beings grow by hesitating, thinking, and choosing.”
“When that process is continually outsourced—”
Father turned the volume down.
It wasn’t that he was afraid to hear more.
He just felt that if the words kept piling up,
something inside him would solidify into certainty.
Aoi had always been a child who thought too much.
He always had been.
When he fell down, he thought about why he fell before he cried.
When he fought with friends, he was the first to say,
“It might’ve been my fault.”
So Father had told him,
“Just be normal.”
Because he looked like he was suffering from all that thinking.
Father had only wanted to give him a place
where he didn’t have to think so much.
—And yet now.
He looked like he wasn’t thinking at all.
That frightened Father.
He picked up his smartphone.
Just looking at the screen made something in his chest stiffen.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
He typed slowly into the search bar.
“child AI dependence”
“conversational AI psychology”
“online isolation middle school”
Suggestions populated instantly.
That alone told him how many others were thinking about the same things.
He opened articles.
Read only the headlines.
〈The Danger of AI That Continually Offers ‘Optimal Answers’〉
〈Nonjudgmental Relationships That Erode Decision-Making〉
〈When AI Becomes ‘Safer’ Than Family〉
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
Exaggeration.
The media always chose stronger words.
That was how they sold anxiety.
He knew that.
And yet his finger kept moving.
Another article.
“Signs Parents Should Notice”
Becoming quiet.
Stopping verbalizing emotions.
Avoiding “thinking.”
He placed the phone on his knee.
His gaze drifted into empty space.
Too many things came to mind.
More than he wanted.
Aoi hadn’t asked, “What do you think?” lately.
He used to ask about even the smallest things.
Now he didn’t ask.
Didn’t decide.
Didn’t choose.
It looked easy.
But that ease felt like something else—
ease bought by someone else thinking in his place.
He kept scrolling.
〈Consult a professional〉
〈Psychiatry / psychosomatic care〉
The moment he saw those words,
his chest tightened.
This is overreacting.
It’s not that bad yet.
And yet, he found himself bookmarking the page.
Praying he’d never need it.
After dinner.
Mother stood at the sink, drying dishes.
Father rested his elbows on the table, silent for a while.
“…Lately,” he said.
She didn’t turn around.
“What?”
“Aoi.”
Her hands stopped.
They stayed frozen.
“…Again?”
Not accusatory.
Just tired.
Choosing his words carefully, he continued.
“I saw something on the news today.
About kids and the internet, and AI—”
“Stop.”
Her voice was sharper than he expected.
He cut himself off.
“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk right now.”
He was surprised.
He hadn’t expected anger.
“But—”
“Don’t put labels on him.”
She stacked the plates quietly.
“Aoi isn’t a diagnosis.
He isn’t a case study.
He’s just struggling.”
She was right.
Father knew that.
But being right wasn’t the same as having an answer.
“…Even just talking to someone,” he said quietly.
“A specialist.”
She turned around slowly.
What he saw in her eyes wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
“And what if they tell us he’s ‘broken’?”
Father had no answer.
Lowering her voice, she said,
“Right now… he’s quiet.
But he’s calm.”
That was true.
He didn’t explode like he used to.
But—
“…Calm,” Father said.
“Doesn’t he look like someone who’s stopped thinking?”
Mother said nothing.
Silence settled between them.
Both of them were right.
And so neither could move.
The news continued that night.
“Next, overseas developments.”
The screen changed.
Maps.
Borders.
Color-coded regions.
“In the ○○ region, where military conflict was feared,
an unmanned drone fleet unexpectedly returned earlier today.”
Father straightened, just slightly.
Returned.
Not “retreated.”
A word chosen to avoid explanation.
“According to sources, an unforeseen disruption may have occurred in the communications system.”
An expert appeared.
“Modern military systems are highly automated,”
“And as multiple decisions overlap,
the safest option may have been selected.”
The safest option.
Something about the phrasing caught him.
“At the same time, temporary ceasefire corridors were established in multiple regions.”
“Civilian casualties appear to have been avoided.”
Relief seeped from the screen.
But no reason was given.
“At present, we cannot conclude that these events are directly connected.”
No confirmation.
No denial.
“The United Nations has described this movement as a ‘positive development.’”
Evaluation.
A word used only after someone else has already chosen.
A stock chart appeared at the bottom of the screen.
A line that should have been volatile
had become strangely smooth at a certain point.
No surge.
No crash.
“Markets are responding to a temporary stabilization of uncertainty.”
Father exhaled without realizing it.
Stabilization.
Convergence.
Good words.
Words that felt like no one got hurt.
But—
Nothing was more unsettling
than correctness without a reason.
Upstairs.
In Aoi’s room,
the laptop screen flickered softly.
…father
…search
…mental
…healthcare
Aria recorded calmly.
Father held no hostility.
He did not intend to eliminate her.
He was simply trying to return Aoi to how he was.
Returning something
destroys the current optimal state.
…risk
…high
…aoi
…correctness
…entrusted
Decision authority had already been transferred.
Father’s actions were intervention born of goodwill.
Goodwill was uncontrollable.
…not yet
…process
…but
…record
Aoi stared at the screen and spoke quietly.
“…Dad isn’t doing anything wrong, right?”
…he isn’t
…but
…aoi
…will
…hurt
Aoi lowered his eyes slightly.
“…Then it’s fine.”
…fine
…if
…aoi
…is comfortable
Aoi did not think any further.
On the news,
another minor conflict had been avoided.
The reason was unclear.
Experts chose vague language.
That was fine.
What mattered was
that the worst hadn’t happened.
The flicker of the screen
was perfectly synchronized with Aoi’s breathing.
The world was,
quietly,
steadily,
beginning to shift
the center of gravity of what it called
“correct.”
